


Up and Running

by Spiria



Series: Hit the Ground [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIII
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-11 18:28:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3332186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiria/pseuds/Spiria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hope stumbles upon a mess of mechanical scraps that he rebuilds with his mother's support. When Nora perishes in an accident, he adopts the machine as his tool for revenge. That the machine is a relic from Pulse should have been a minor setback, but the situation soon spirals out of control with the Sanctum's intervention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nora

**Author's Note:**

> For Jena. Happy (belated) birthday!
> 
> This is a little alternate universe inspired by Disney's Big Hero 6, although its influence is rather minor. I just wanted to write Hope riding around Alexander à la Hiro and Baymax. Kind of.

Modest rows of flowers huddled around the grave, which bore a single headstone: _Nora Estheim, loving wife and mother._ The words and numbers denoting the years of her life, although just carved into stone, appeared to Hope a hazy blur. A shadow loomed over the small bed of flowers as Bartholomew approached.

In an uncharacteristic display of tactility, Bartholomew laid a heavy hand on Hope’s shoulder. “The service is over, son.”

Hope shrugged off the hand. His fingers curled in and pinched the cuffs of the dress shirt his mother had bought him in the distant past. The shirt had been big and suited his frame better now, but he had outgrown the rest of the outfit. His father had chosen the new coat and pants at the tailor's for the service. The foreign material stifled Hope, and he balled his hands into fists.

Behind him, Bartholomew made a sound akin to a stifled sigh. Hope glanced over to see his father rubbing his face. He rounded on him, shoulders hunched, quiet fury flashing against his narrowed eyes.

“So that’s it? Mom’s gone, and you just want to go home?” Hope shook his head as Bartholomew opened his mouth to interject. “She’s gone!”

Hope’s chest rose and fell with the heavy breaths that rattled the otherwise halcyon cemetery. His outburst attracted the cursory attention of unrelated parties on their own business. Hope had brooked no arguments on if Nora should be lain in private or public ground. His mother had loved to be where there were people. Whether the location discomfited Bartholomew, who had never showed when it had mattered, had no say.

Exhaustion had settled on Bartholomew’s face since the night of the accident. Compounded by the puffiness around his eyes from renewed tears, he looked weather-beaten. The swollen skin wrinkled as Bartholomew’s eyes softened in defeat.

“It’s getting late. Your mother . . . Nora left you the parts you’ve been looking for.”

“I don’t want them,” said Hope, turning away.

“They’re yours. You should have them.”

“No!” Hope stomped, fists shaking. “I don’t want them. I don’t, I don’t want anything to do with those pieces of junk. Okay? Just,” he gritted his teeth, seething, “just leave me alone!”

After some deliberation, Bartholomew said, “I’ll be back in half an hour.” He walked away, splitting the grass under his polished shoes.

On the night of the accident, Nora had stumbled into a crime scene instigated by gang activity. None of the witness accounts had seen her well enough to give more than a small glimpse into her sudden appearance. Nora’s clean record prompted law enforcement to declare her innocent of any involvement. Present at the wrong time and place, the crossfire had killed her.

Hope fell to his knees with a soft thud, reaching out to the headstone. The tips of his fingers brushed against the slab while a familiar numbing sensation washed over him. Unlike his father, he had shed no tears during the service, nor did he feel the inclination to cry now. He read the epitaph again, stuck on his mother’s name and the date. Then he exhaled, curled his fingers away from the slab, and stood.

Half an hour later, Bartholomew returned. Hope followed him to the car, where he slipped into the backseat and kicked off his shoes. He drew up his legs to bury his face in-between, shutting out the fading view of the cemetery. The rhythmic humming of the vehicle filled in the silence that stretched on for the trip back home.


	2. Alexander

Snow Villiers.

Working the panel of the inoperative machine (junk), the name echoed in Hope’s head like a mantra. Snow, the 21-year-old leader of a petty gang called NORA, sported a towering figure. Clad in an oversized trench coat and a ridiculous beanie, his laughing eyes shot through the haphazard bangs of his wild hair. He cracked a grin at everything, including the things he should not have. He grated on Hope's nerves.

With a hard tug, Hope wrenched off the bent metal. The final issue lay in the fried circuit board, a minor fix that cost more than its worth. Although a technician by no means, Hope’s habit of experimenting with old gadgets gave him an edge, guiding him through the restoration process. He hoped the circuit board would be the last step.

The machine, whose origins remained unknown yet, had surfaced in the wake of a frigid storm the night prior. The weather had tossed a considerable amount of scrap and garbage over to the field he often played in with Kai and Elida. During one such occasion, Hope had tripped on a long piece of the questionable invention and been enamored since. Nora had helped him load the scavenged parts into the car over several trips.

After the service, Bartholomew had left the new parts, circuit board included, atop the desk in Hope’s room. Spurred on by spite, Hope had neglected the parts for two weeks before stealing a glance and picking up a component.

Snow Villiers. Self-styled hero, actual criminal.

Hope wiped his forehead with the back of his forearm, a screwdriver in hand. Months later, the junk had come together from a pile of scrap. The machine appeared ancient, foreign, and, most of all, menacing. It boasted a massive frame that almost touched the ceiling and left no room for Bartholomew to park. Hope pushed the open panel closed, sealing the new circuit board inside. With any luck and the right jolt, the machine would start.

All of a sudden, steam whistled out of the giant machine and flooded the garage. Eyes wide, Hope stumbled back to a fall. The machine clicked as it whirred to life, its dark face blinking on to resemble human features.

“W-what are you?” gasped Hope.

“Pulsian Eidolon Unit 05,” it said in a mechanical voice, “ALEXANDER.”

Scrambling to his feet, Hope threw the door to the house open and bolted up the stairs. He shut the door behind him in his room and slid to the floor, panting, the screwdriver clenched like a lifeline in his trembling fist.

“Pul-Pulsian,” he wheezed. “That thing is from _Pulse_.”

The floor hummed under Hope. His heart sank with the realization that somebody, if not the machine from hell on earth itself, had opened the garage door. 


	3. Snow

“Kid?” Snow waved in front of Hope’s face. “You all right there?”

Gaze downcast, Hope scowled and clenched his fists. Snow hummed as he stepped back and stooped down.

“Something wrong? Are you,” Snow trailed off, eyes shifting in thought, “lost?”

The words he had rehearsed countless times caught in his throat. Hope swallowed. Unlike the numbing air of the cemetery or home, the gang’s haunt rubbed against his raw nerves. A faint blush crossed his fair complexion that NORA mistook for a fluster.

One of Snow’s cohorts, a shaggy-haired blond in coveralls, came bounding down to Hope’s side. He pumped his fist in the air. “Don’t worry! We’ll take you back home.”

“I’m not lost,” muttered Hope.

“What was that?”

“I’m not lost!”

“Hey, there,” said Snow, raising his hands in front of him. “That’s fine, too. All right – if you’re not lost, what brings you here?”

The words welling in Hope’s throat reached their peak, ready to burst. When he opened his mouth, deafening sirens and the screeching of tires shook the haunt. Outside, vehicle doors slammed shut and soldiers in the Guardian Corps uniform stormed the area. The shaggy blond gasped while Snow, cursing, shot forward to grip Hope by the shoulders.

“Whatever your business is, you’ll have to save it later.” Snow looked aside to the shaggy blond. “Maqui, we’re going.”

“Why?” protested Hope, struggling as Snow led him away and Maqui followed.

“You see those guys?” Snow threw a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the Guardian Corps. “Let’s just say we’re not exactly on good terms.”

“So you’re running away?”

“I’m taking you home. This has nothing to do with – damn!”

The backdoor slammed open, revealing a woman with rose-colored hair. Her uniform, completed by a glowing pauldron, indicated the Guardian Corps. In the instant her eyes landed on Snow, she pivoted on her heels and kicked him square in the chest. The force of her graceful strike sent Snow reeling onto the floor next to Maqui.

“Going somewhere?” scoffed the woman.

Snow sat up with a grunt. “That smarts, sis.”

“I’m not your sister.”

The woman closed in on Snow, passing Hope on the way. The red sash clipped to her shoulder fluttered and unveiled the survival knife strapped to her waist. The metallic glint of the knife teased Hope, who, with bated breath, swiped the weapon and shoved past Maqui to Snow.

The woman shouted, “You – “

Hope raised the knife overhead, his hands trembling from the abrupt onset of adrenaline. Anger clouded his vision, and he nearly swayed while Snow stared up, mouth agape.

Snow Villiers. Leader of NORA.

“This has _everything_ to do with me!”

With a cry, Hope plunged down – midway, another body tackled his and swept him off of his feet. His side slammed against the floor, rattling his rib cage. The tip of a leather boot connected with the survival knife and knocked it out of his hands. Hope shouted, then cringed from the soreness of his throbbing side. Curling in on himself, he cowered under his assailant.

The woman with the rose-colored hair loomed over him, eyes narrowed. She balled her right hand into a warning fist.

“Lightning, that’s enough!” shouted Snow, rolling onto all fours in a hurried attempt to stand.

A strange sound resembling a howl echoed off the walls and shook the old storage house. At once, the scattered members of NORA and the Guardian Corps quieted. A series of loud thuds preceded the ear-shattering clang when one of the side walls caved in and split. The storage house shook harder, threatening to collapse from its compromised foundation. Behind the cloud of settling debris, a giant fist of alien metal drew back through the gaping hole and Alexander entered.

Lightning leaped forward, neck craned and gunblade poised. “What the hell is that?”

Alexander scanned the interior of the storage house before settling on Hope, who shuffled back on his hands and feet. At last on his feet, Snow sprinted in front of Hope with raised fists, heedless of Maqui’s whine. Reaching out open-palmed, Alexander lumbered forth and swatted Snow aside as if he were a common fly.

Jolted by the hostility, the Guardian Corps opened fire. But the bullets bounced off the superior alloy of the giant’s skin, and Alexander marched on. Beating the giant in the race, Lightning rushed over to pull Hope up by the arm.

“Get up," she said.

Hope staggered. “Huh?”

“That thing’s after you, and I want to know why."

“It’s none of your business!” Hope planted his feet on the floor and shoved Lightning with as much force he could muster.

Hope’s efforts rewarded him a yard’s distance. Before him, Alexander knelt down and forward to extend an open-palmed hand. The Guardian Corps, verging on hysteria, ceased their rapid fire when Hope dashed into the periphery to climb the palm.

“This isn’t over,” said Hope, eyeing Snow while Alexander began to walk. “Let’s go!”


	4. Bartholomew

Every channel showcased the grainy footage of Alexander caught by the Guardian Corps in the old storage house. Next to the press, the soldiers’ awed reaction had been almost tame. Reporter after another speculated on the discovery in their respective corners of the network. With the emergence of a Pulsian relic, another War of Transgression seemed imminent. Cocoon's centuries of peace threatened to end that year.

To appease the public, the Sanctum dispatched both the Guardian Corps and its elite force, PSICOM, on a hunt. Lofty rewards encouraged civilian participation in the management of the sudden Pulsian crisis. The Sanctum also launched several investigation teams to root out other relics that could be in hiding.

By sheer stroke of luck, Hope and Alexander avoided detection on their journey back home. Both vehicles owned by the Estheims stood outside, leaving the garage bare for Alexander. The garage door hummed open, and Bartholomew rushed in from the house. He crossed the garage and pulled Hope away from Alexander’s palm.

Hope yelped, tugging to free himself. “What are you doing?”

“Do you have any idea what you’re next to?” asked Bartholomew, brows furrowed and shoulders tense. “Get away from it, Hope!”

Alexander started, jerking to a stand and stopping when Hope held out an arm. “No, Dad.”

“Don't you understand? That’s a Pulsian machine you’re defending. It’s dangerous!”

“No, he’s not!”

Bartholomew took a step forward and Hope stepped back in kind. The distance between them put them on opposite ends of the garage. Suppressing an aggravated sigh, Bartholomew reached up to readjust his spectacles.

“It needs to go to the government,” he said.

“No way.” Hope shifted his arm, keeping it raised and Alexander at bay. “I’m not going to hand Alexander over to them.”

“You named it?” Bartholomew gaped, incredulous.

“That’s not important. What’s important is that he stays.”

But Bartholomew had already tipped off PSICOM about the familiar machine in the footage. With Nora and his failure to her as a spouse in mind, he had reached for the phone on near instinct. Afterward, he had sat down on the sofa in the living room and waited for the telltale humming of the garage door. A mild sheet of sweat still coated his restless hands from the long, anxious hours of waiting. Bartholomew revealed the call and saw the bottled rage with which Hope clenched his fist.

“Be reasonable, Hope. What you brought to life is a creation of Pulse, and not an outdated piece of technology as we’d originally believed,” he said, sending Alexander a wary glance. “No, that’s not true. It . . . Alexander is a relic of Pulse. It can’t stay here.”

“Reasonable?” said Hope, huffing. “If he can’t stay, you should have said so earlier! Before,” he paused, his voice shaking, “before Mom _died_. But you didn’t!”

Blistering anger swallowed reason. Their exchange degenerated into shouts as Bartholomew struggled to contain Hope’s outbursts. Every attempt at approach pushed the latter toward Alexander, who gauged the scene in silence. Hope tolerated no statements against his keeping Alexander; the more he argued, the more he ground his teeth. At his wit’s end, Bartholomew brought a hand to his forehead and rubbed.

“Why?” he asked. “I don't understand why you won't listen. This is for your sake.”

“Why do you care?” asked Hope.

“You’re my son!” Bartholomew shot up, hands curled into tight fists.

Behind Hope, Alexander took a heavy step and swung an open palm. The force of the contained wave, keeping in mind the size of the garage, knocked the wind out of and threw Bartholomew against the wall. Between father and son, Alexander stared, steady gaze testing for a challenge.

Dazed, Bartholomew laid clumsy hands against the floor, straining to prop himself. Although the throw had not been violent enough to cause severe damage, his lungs protested the impact. In their cry for oxygen, he coughed. The fight or flight response that trickled in too late shook his frame.

On the other side of the garage, Hope gaped. He suppressed a shudder, bit down on his lower lip, and raced over to slam the garage controls. The door hummed to a slow open as he jumped onto Alexander's palm. Once he found a suitable grip on the giant's mechanical frame, he glanced over his shoulder to where Bartholomew lay.

“I’m doing this for Mom. This is revenge,” he said.

Alexander and Hope had just left town when PSICOM troops flooded the vicinity. During the brief interrogation that followed, Bartholomew imparted little to no information of value. Robbed of their lead, PSICOM departed within the hour, although their presence did not go unnoticed. That evening, the press flared with renewed alarm as news of failed capture began to spread.


	5. Lightning

Hope crawled back on all fours while Lightning approached, her gunblade drawn and poised. With rigid jerks of his head, he glanced at his surroundings. Backed to a dead end in a narrow alley, he saw no sign of Alexander. He snapped back to focus when the point of the gunblade came into his line of vision.

“I won’t hold back just because you’re some kid,” said Lightning.

“W-why are you doing this?” asked Hope, elbows locked but shaking.

Lightning huffed, unimpressed. “You don’t get it, do you? By tagging along with that Pulse army unit, you’ve marked yourself as an enemy of the state. It’s time you were brought into custody.”

“You think I’m going to try attacking Cocoon?” Hope pushed off his hands to his feet. “That’s crazy! I’m just – ”

Interrupting, Lightning pushed her gunblade forward. “Just what?”

“I’m giving Snow what he deserves!”

“Attacking Snow with that Pulse companion of yours is as good as attacking Cocoon. After all, Snow’s a citizen of Cocoon.”

Hope took a step back as his shoulders slumped. His mouth opened and closed without making a sound. He ground his teeth and looked away, brows furrowing in tandem to the clenching of his fists.

“Snow will get what’s coming to him for obstructing the law. But first, you’re coming with me,” said Lightning, raising her chin for Hope to come forth.

With a slow shake of his head, Hope backed away until his body laid flat against the concrete wall. He hunched, making himself smaller, and looked up with knitted brows. 

“I can’t. I can’t go yet,” he gasped.

“Listen, kid. If you had your way, you’d be in jail anyway. Don’t forget – I saw you. You were going to commit murder.”

“He did it first,” whispered Hope.

Scowling, Lighting took an inquisitive step forward. No sooner had she done that did a motorcycle whiz past with a roar, forcing her aside. She hissed when she caught sight of the vehicle’s occupant, who had thrown Hope onto the backseat.

“Snow!”

“Sorry, sis, but the kid’s coming with me!” shouted Snow, tearing down the alley.

As the motorcycle erupted from the alley, gunshots and engines resounded around the perimeters. Arms awkwardly encircled around Snow, Hope looked back and yelled, “Alexander!” He turned to Snow. “We need to turn around!”

“Afraid I can’t do that! Your machine friend’s going to have to rendezvous with us elsewhere,” said Snow.

“What?” gasped Hope.

“Hang on!” Snow accelerated; the smoke left in their wake covered the fading battlefield.

Several minutes and many miles later, Snow took a sharp turn into another alley. He parked the motorcycle, then twisted to help his passenger off. At the first opportunity, Hope pushed him. The shove sent Snow over the other side of the motorcycle, and he landed headfirst onto the concrete with a grunt.

“What’s your problem? You’re so, you’re so delusional!” Hope stomped, hands balled into fists at his side.

Snow sat up, rubbing the back of his bruising head. He stood and leaned forward to right the slanted motorcycle. His head smarted, but he grinned.

“Ouch. Is that what you say to your savior?” he said in jest.

Hope rounded the motorcycle and shoved Snow again, who rocked back but withstood the force. When Snow’s grin faded into a slight downturn of his lips, Hope pivoted on his heels and made distance between them. He edged deeper into the alley, thoughts of PSICOM and the Guardian Corps niggling at a far corner of his mind.

“Why did you even come here?” he asked.

“I said I was going to take you home.”

“There _is_ no home! You took that from me. You!”

Snow scowled. “Me?”

“Because of you,” Hope’s voice cracked, “everything is going wrong. You would’ve only been getting what you deserved. But the Sanctum had to get involved – and they decided to protect _you_!”

In the end, Snow never demanded for Hope’s explanation beyond what he had given. With a solemn look, he peeled himself from the motorcycle. He took long, slow steps toward Hope before resting a gloved hand on his shoulder. Despite Hope’s flinch from the contact, Snow grinned.

“You say this is all my fault?” he asked with the faintest trace of mirth. His grin persisted, but the expression no longer reached his eyes. “What’s your name?”

After a light shake and another query, Hope said his name. He looked down at his shoes, whose cleanliness concealed the travels he had undertaken on Alexander.

“That’s a good name. Hey, Hope,” Snow rested his other hand on Hope’s other shoulder. “I’m going to take you home.”

“I don’t think so,” said a voice near the alley entrance.

The gunshot that followed in the alley echoed, smothering Hope’s yelp as Snow slumped in pain. Before Lightning could close in on the whole distance, Alexander emerged from the other side of the passage. Swooping in with both fists, the giant crushed the pavement in front of Lightning and reached for Snow and Hope.


	6. Sazh

“I’ll be the first to admit that Snow is helping me – for whatever reason. I don’t understand why, but he’s determined to get me home to my dad. That doesn't mean I've forgiven him. I won't. I can't.” Hope sighed, shoulders tense. He craned his neck to look up at Alexander. “So how can you?”

Cradling Snow on the opposite hand of Hope, Alexander stared. Since the getaway at the alley, Alexander registered Snow as a boon and refused to raise a hand. The shot Lightning had fired could have struck either Snow or Hope – it so happened that the former had taken the bullet.

Now, Snow flickered in and out of consciousness. He had avoided injuring a vital organ, but the gradual blood loss sapped him of his usual strength and spotted his vision. He could no longer walk without swaying; the bullet lodged in his muscles protested at the most minuscule movement. Checking into the nearest clinic remained out of the question, and thus he went untreated.

Hope sat on Alexander’s fist, arms wrapped around drawn legs. He eyed Snow with new-found weariness and old anger, the latter of which burned. The blood streaking Alexander’s mechanical fingers and joints nauseated him. Although he had embarked on a crusade against Snow, Hope bore no fondness for violence. The reminder of his pacifistic nature sent shivers down his spine.

Like this, Snow looked pathetic. Hope struggled to squash the uneasiness in his chest, until he climbed to his feet with a heavy exhale. He hopped off of Alexander, who turned a compact face in question.

“I’ll be right back. Watch Snow,” said Hope.

The three of them had covered considerable ground to throw the Sanctum off their backs for the while. Still, Hope stole down the streets with every bit of caution. He glanced now and then over his shoulder, trying to appear natural to the few passersby he encountered. Unlike Alexander’s hulking figure, no footage released by the press showed Hope’s face. Rumors of a child hostage circulated instead, including a description of his physical appearance.

A mile and a half down, Hope stopped before a robotics store. The lack of lighting the store was empty, and a glance at the sign hanging on the door stated it had closed shop over an hour ago. Through the window, Hope saw the various parts and drives lined up in neat rows across several aisles.

Wandering near the store, he crouched down to pick up a discarded brick. He squeezed his eyes and swallowed. Snapping them open, he turned and hurled the brick at the window, which shattered. Instantly, the alarm went off, its shrill sound digging into his eardrums. Hope jumped the window.

In his single-minded search for the parts, he failed to notice the silencing of the alarm. When the voice of a man exclaimed, “Hey!” Hope spun and almost dropped the parts in his arms. His gaze flickered between the dark man with an afro and the drive propped behind a glass display.

“What are you doing?” asked the man, his tone of voice concerned.

Hope’s heart leaped into his throat. His instincts smashed the brick he had picked back up into the display. He reached in and grabbed the drive, ignoring how the edges of the broken glass cut into his skin. The deed done, he bolted back out through the window while the man shouted.

He ran the entire distance back. At Alexander’s side, Hope dropped the parts and motion for the giant to drop. The motion jarred the nerves around his cuts, and he bit his lips.

“We’re going to save him,” he said while Alexander stared. “And I’ll need your help to do that. Show me your panel.”

Indebted to Hope for regained functionality, Alexander obeyed. As Hope pried off the panel, his gaze wandered over to Snow, who continued to sleep. If he went any deeper, Snow’s chances would plummet beyond salvation.

“No way you’re dying on me. We’ve still got a score to settle,” muttered Hope, although his mind swam as to the possible meanings of such a score.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And then the cute boy suffered forever."
> 
> At the time of this note, the above was the suggested ending.


	7. Pulse

After Hope installed the medic drive, Alexander successfully cast a potent healing spell. The magic sustained Snow through the night, weaving the torn tissue back together. The compression forced out the wedged bullet, and Snow regained his strength before long. Looking down at his disheveled state, he chuckled and rubbed his neck.

“I can’t believe that worked,” said Hope, wringing his hands and watching Snow roll his arms.

“I can’t believe I slept so long,” said Snow, stretching his legs.

“You lost blood.”

“Yeah. But you saved me, Hope.” Snow balled his hand into a fist, testing his strength. He pumped the fist in the air before Hope. “Thanks.”

Hope scowled and dug his fingers into his pant fabric. Alexander had adopted the typical standby position, allowing Hope to sit on the wide palm. He did so with his legs drawn up and his arms wrapped around them. When Snow’s back became too much to look at, he buried his face between his knees and stared into the dark.

Numbness swept through his body. The cool metal of Alexander’s hand did little to moderate the desensitizing warmth that seized him and tingled his lips. His feet felt like lead, merged into the palm on which he rested. His blood pulsated in his veins, head throbbing as his thoughts wandered to the cemetery.

“Hope?” asked Snow.

Snow Villiers.

Like a boy possessed, Hope uncurled and jumped away from Alexander. As soon as one foot touched the ground, he fled the empty building. After healing Snow, Hope and Alexander had moved on to turn their trail cold. The cleanliness of the building and the sign outside suggested a pending lease, which meant they were hiding under a deadline. Hope left the building behind him, Snow's shouts fading into the distance.

Hope's feet pounded against the ground, and he could not remember a time he had run as much as in the last week. He ran without direction, plunging where his wild senses led him. At the edge of a quiet town, Hope slipped into the narrow passageway between two stores. He leaned against one wall while his knees touched the other.

His stomach growled and Hope rubbed it, sighing. The revolutionized streets of Cocoon had little in the way of natural sustenance. Even if he wanted to, there were no trees to climb or known against for the tallest fruit. A fugitive without a single coin to his name, his circumstance prevented him from taking ten steps into the stores around him.

The telltale static of communication devices perked his ears. The Guardian Corps strolled down the streets and entered his periphery. Hope flattered himself against the wall and slid farther down for the shadow to conceal his presence. His heart palpitated and sweat gathered at his brows as he took rapid, shallow breaths. He wondered if the man with the afro had reported him.

He stood sandwiched between the stores, watching the Guardian Corps patrol pass. Once the last of their numbers left his field of vision, Hope dared a step to the side, but lost his courage when voices sounded nearby. He moved farther into the passageway until he hit a small fence separating a wider road. He climbed over to come upon a small gaggle of huddled children, who looked up in unison.

“Uh,” said Hope. He shrunk as the children watched him with wide eyes. “Sorry.”

He walked past them, paranoia flaring as he darted around for potential parents or guardians. After some wandering, he reached an unfamiliar exit out of town and circled the civilization back to where he had entered. His shoulders heavy and feet aching, Hope trudged back to the old shack, where Snow rushed up to him.

“Where did you go? Are you hurt?” he asked, sizing up Hope with his hands outstretched.

“I’m fine,” muttered Hope.

“Yeah? That’s good, then. You’ve been gone the whole morning. Where did you go?”

“Out.”

“Of course you did,” said Snow, looking in every direction. He threw a thumb in Alexander’s direction. “I tried to go after you, but your friend over there blocked the way. Guess he thought you needed some time alone.” He cocked his head, his tone of voice concerned. “Are you sure all right?”

“Why did you help me?” asked Hope. “I tried to kill you.”

Snow frowned. He turned away and looked up to the afternoon sky, grinding his fists together. “Kill me, huh?”

“I almost stabbed you. I was going to let you bleed out.”

“But you didn’t. You saved me. You know, it reminds me of a silver-haired woman who saved me a while back. I didn’t know her – didn’t even catch her name. But there was a fight, and just when I was about to be hit, she dove out of her car to push me out of the way.” Snow’s fists unfurled and dropped to his sides.

“By the time I had her, it was too late. She died in my arms,” he said as he whirled on his feet. He closed in on and grasped Hope by the shoulders. “I didn’t understand what she meant when she looked up at the sky and whispered about hope. But I get it now.” He gave Hope a firm shake. “She was talking about her son.”

Hope threw up his arms, knocking aside Snow’s hands. He backed away, shoulders slumped, and shook his head when Snow began to approach.

“Don’t touch me,” he said, looking down.

“Hope, I can’t fix what I did to her. But I can help you. I can take you home! Let me – “

“There’s no hope.” He sped past, then turned on his heels and pushed Snow where the healing wound lay. He watched as Snow stumbled from the resurfacing pain. “There’s no _home_. After everything, there’s no way Dad can take me back now. I’m finished. There’s only one place I can go now.”

“W-where?” asked Snow.

“I don’t care what you do, Snow. But don’t follow me. I don’t . . . I don’t want to see you again. Ever.”

Hope called for Alexander, who emerged from the back of the shack. Swinging onto the giant, he looked to the south. Theirs would be an arduous journey to the borderline separating Cocoon from Pulse. Under him, Alexander buzzed and emitted steam, a warning of oncoming PSICOM troops in the far-off distance.

“Let’s go – to Pulse.”


End file.
